


The Golden Age

by sevenimpossiblethings



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M, POV Arthur (Inception)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-29 22:07:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15738270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenimpossiblethings/pseuds/sevenimpossiblethings
Summary: In which the heir of a badly managed estate attends a masquerade ball in honor of a prince.(It's a love story.)





	The Golden Age

**Author's Note:**

> I had an Aristocracy AU square on my bingo card. In 2017. I do generally deliver, I'm simply very slow about it. At the time I started writing it (yes, a year ago), I'd just read [these characterization thoughts](http://la-belle-laide.tumblr.com/post/155881876919/i-just-have-some-arthureames-thoughts-sometimes) by la-belle-laide on tumblr. This fic isn't an exact match for these observations, but they were definitely at the forefront of my mind while planning. 
> 
> Technically, the title doesn't have to be a reference to a lyric, but of course it's from "State of Grace," since what I want for Arthur and Eames is _something good and right and real_. 
> 
> Beta'd by... (drumroll please) (::drumroll::) Castillon02!

“We’re not saying you _have_ to seduce the prince,” Arthur’s mother says as she flutters around him, straightening his already-straight lapels and brushing completely non-existent lint off of his shoulders.

“But think about it.” This from Arthur’s father, who is standing at a dignified distance, his eyebrows creased as he scrutinizes Arthur’s outfit.

“If only the prince liked girls...” His mother again, plaintive, sparing a glance for Ariadne, who is sprawled in an armchair, wrinkling her silvery ball gown with impunity.

Arthur winces.

Ariadne winces.

His father nods thoughtfully. 

“We should go, or else we’ll be late,” says Arthur.

“Don’t forget your masks!” Arthur’s mother tries to put his on, but he firmly extracts it from her grip and steps toward the door.

“I’m not going to wear it the whole ride there,” he says. “Ari will help me when we get there.”

And he’ll help Ariadne with her own mask, not that their parents are at all concerned about whether hers sits straight and doesn’t mess up her hair.

“If you’re sure…” his mother says.

“I don’t see why he had to make this a bloody _masquerade_ ,” his father huffs.

Arthur suppresses the urge to roll his eyes at the chosen adjective: nobody bloody used ‘bloody’ until the current queen decided her children had grown too far from her own culture and their vocabulary ought to reflect their heritage. Suddenly, ‘bloody’ (and its various brothers and first-cousins-twice-removed and so on) was all the rage not only at court, but also among the newly ennobled or newly impoverished please-invite-us-to-court set. Hence the expansion of Arthur’s father’s vocabulary.

And the ball in question, held in honor of the crown prince’s return after four years spent at his maternal grandfather’s side.

“It’s going to make it so much harder to gain the prince’s attention,” his mother agrees.

Both of his parents take a moment to frown and fret in Arthur’s direction.

“Just remember which mask is his, and you’ll think of something,” his mother continues, her tone bracing in what is clearly a last-minute attempt at encouragement.

“And with that…” says Ariadne. She places her hand on Arthur’s arm, squeezing it once.

They make their way into the carriage in silence.

“You don’t have to seduce the prince, you know,” says Ariadne, as the carriage jolts forward.

“I don’t see how I _could_ , so it doesn’t matter, does it?” says Arthur.

“ _I’ll_ find someone to marry and fix everything for both of us.”

Arthur considers her, or at least tries to, from within the gloom of the carriage. The sky has long begun its steady slide into dusk, and they have no lamp with them inside. He may not be able to make out the details on the necklace their mother reluctantly lent her, or the embroidery on her gown, but it’s impossible to miss her determined gaze.

“I could fix everything without either of us marrying, if they’d only let me run the estate,” Arthur offers.

“And the finances,” says Ariadne.

“And the finances,” he echoes.

But there’s no hope of that happening, so he leans back against the seat, staring into the night.

He doesn’t know anything about the prince, and he doesn’t feel in a particularly seductive mood. Maybe he should try anyway. They can’t actually afford the house in the city. Perhaps Arthur can convince his parents to let it, at the very least, once its usefulness as a base of operations for snaring the prince has run out...

The palace is already swarming with courtiers when he and Ariadne arrive, and their unimpressive titles are lost amidst the chatter of the assembled, hopeful guests.

Arthur and Ariadne slip through the crowded entryway, toward the center of the ballroom, where dozens of masked couples are dancing to a less-than-lively tune.

“First dance?” Arthur asks Ariadne, holding out his hand, but she pushes it away.

“Better not. Wait until there’s a chance the prince has seen you dance with a few men. There’s no reason for him to know we’re siblings,” she reminds him.

It’s odd to watch her speak with her face half-obscured, her burnt orange mask covering her cheeks and shading her eyes. The effect of anonymity is only ruined because Arthur knows the sound of her voice better than his own.

Before Arthur can steer them toward the side, where they might better scout for appropriate partners, a man in a plain gray mask asks Ariadne to dance, and she spins away. Arthur thinks he catches a wink as she goes, but between her mask and the candlelight, it’s hard to say for certain.

“Abandoned so early?” says a voice in Arthur’s ear.

He startles, knocks into a passing dancer in his haste to turn, and would have fallen over if his stranger hadn’t grasped his shoulder to steady him.

“Thank you,” says Arthur.

“The fault was mine,” says the man, in an impeccable Proclusian accent. “In my eagerness to capture your attention, I approached too quickly, and from an inopportune angle.”

“It’s all right,” says Arthur.

He expects the man to politely excuse himself: Arthur’s accent marks him as decidedly not the prince, and no one has genuinely been eager to capture Arthur’s attention in his life, other than Ariadne.

Instead, the man holds out his hand and asks him to dance.

Arthur accepts, his words no doubt more halting than his mother would like, but his partner doesn’t seem to care. His hold is firm without being tight, his steps sure without being forceful.

Arthur knows how to dance, more or less, on a technical level. His parents had paid for a second-rate instructor, competent enough but not the best. He and Ariadne have been practicing in the parlor for a month, switching off lead and follow. Their practice sessions never failed to end in laughter on her part and a mounting sense of desperation on his. They both agreed that Ariadne made for a better conversational partner than a dance partner. Since Arthur was a mediocre partner in both dancing and conversation, they also agreed that saving their fortunes would be entirely up to her charm. 

Arthur’s partner dances in a way he’s never seen before, certainly never experienced, powerful and fluid at once—and he doesn’t leave Arthur behind in any of this. In all of Arthur’s previous experience at dances—little ones, with the low-level nobility, the upper-level merchants—he spent the whole time thinking about the individual steps, the checklist running through his mind of beats and foot placement and arm angles.

He’s not thinking, now.

He moves with his partner without thought, without hesitation, and when his partner turns them, shifting them slowly but unerringly toward the edge of the dancers, Arthur moves with him as if the idea were his own. 

He’s so caught up in the dance he’s forgotten to speak.

He flushes beneath his mask, ashamed that he’s forgotten this one, most basic civility, but just as he begins to search his mind for something to say—any pleasantry will do at this point, surely—the music ends, and his partner releases him with a bow.

“I’m,” Arthur begins, flustered. “Thank you.”

It’s inadequate and awful, and he waits to be bid goodnight, waits to be left for someone who could possibly match his partner’s skill, or at least meet it with conversation.

“Shall we do another turn?” His partner holds out his hand again.

Arthur accepts at once.

“Thank you,” Arthur repeats. “I’m sorry, I… you’re a beautiful dancer.”

“You’re beautiful,” says his partner.

“I’m wearing a mask.”

“I can see enough.”

Arthur almost laughs, before he catches himself; he isn’t sure if he’s supposed to. He eyes his partner’s mask as they spin around the edges of the dance floor, where the press of the other dancing couples is less. His partner’s mask is simpler than many of the others Arthur glimpsed when he and Ariadne walked in, a midnight blue with simple black embroidery. The fabric is shimmery, clearly of the highest quality, but there’s not a jewel in sight.

“Call me Charles,” says his partner.

First names, then, no titles. Arthur can work with that.

“Arthur,” he replies.

“I have heard a rumor,” says Charles, “of boys already betrothed, coming here in hopes of catching the prince. Tell me, Arthur: are you one of them?”

“No,” says Arthur, who has heard no such rumor but doesn’t doubt it. The scorned boy would be compensated for the broken engagement, one way or another. “Are you?”

“No,” says Charles.

He pulls Arthur a little closer to him. Not too close for the dance, not close enough to be scandalous, but closer all the same.

“I don’t know what we can say,” Arthur confesses. “If we’re not meant to reveal our identities.”

“Has your life been so entwined with your title—specifically, I mean, not simply nobility in general—that you can’t speak around it?” Charles sounds more curious than critical, for which Arthur is grateful.

“No,” he says. “Rather the opposite. I mean, we’re not—not very wealthy, you see, so I’ve spent much of the last several years being coached on how to speak around… specifics, as you put it. So if you didn’t happen to know exactly my lands and income, you might think I’m more important than I am.”

It’s a relief to confess this.

Ariadne _knows_ this, of course, but their tacit understanding isn’t the same as spelling it out for someone else to see.

“A night like this is perfect for you, then,” says Charles.

“In theory. But as you can see—I didn’t much take to it. I’ve just told you, straight out, for one.”

“Honesty can be more valuable than gold,” says Charles, so sincerely that Arthur concludes he must be terribly wealthy. None but the most secure could hold such a position and declare it without a shred of artifice. 

Arthur would love for Charles to repeat it in front of his parents. The looks on their faces wouldn’t repair the estate’s western well or put a new roof on the big stable, but at least it would be an amusing memory for Arthur to call up while he combed through the account books.

“Tell me something else true about yourself, Arthur.”

Arthur searches his brain, suddenly desperate for something interesting to say about himself, but it’s a fruitless quest. He spends his days trying to keep a handle on the money, wishing he could afford to buy better clothes, ruthlessly ignoring that wish. He’s _boring_.

And normally, his boringness is obviousness enough to his conversational partners. It’s all up top, all out in the open. No one ever has to _ask_ to have it confirmed: they can see it well enough themselves. The jacket that doesn’t quite fit right, the two-seasons-past pattern of his waistcoat.

He’s... competent.

In ways that don’t matter to the people who matter to his parents.

“I don’t know,” he confesses at last. “It’s all true.”

“You couldn’t lie to save your life, could you?” Charles sounds delighted.

Arthur certainly can’t lie to save his estate, which is more important than his life.

“I spend a lot of time doing accounting,” Arthur says. Maybe he can rid himself of all of his embarrassing qualities now, with this first partner, and he won’t make such crass admissions the rest of the night. He tries to think of Charles as a practice partner, of a sorts, but it doesn’t work: no one who dances as well as Charles could possibly be written off so neatly.

“Maths was never my strong subject,” Charles says, still in that cheery tone of his.

Arthur takes a deep breath as Charles spins him, catching him again with a confident hand. “Clearly we’re a good match then,” Arthur dares himself to say. “We balance each other out.”

His heart is racing, but before Charles can respond, the dance ends, and the other dancers are jostling them, vying for new partners.

Charles bows. “Thank you for the dances, Arthur. I hope you have a wonderful evening.” He squeezes Arthur’s hand. Releases it. And is immediately swept away by the crowd. 

Arthur stands at the edge of the dancers. His body is still, but his mind is still captured by the last song, stepping and spinning with Charles.

Or perhaps not his mind.

Formally, this is a welcome ball for the prince. But Arthur knows he has no chance at a royal match, so surely the prince would not begrudge him if, for Arthur, this is the coming-out ball for his heart.

Arthur is interrupted by another invitation to dance, this time in an accent almost Proclusian, but still lacking something around the vowels. Higher than Arthur, then, but still less authentic than Charles.

For some reason, this makes Arthur feel proud of Charles: everyone else is pretending, but he’s the real thing.

Another song, another partner.

Again, again around the ballroom, sometimes as lead, sometimes as follow. 

Arthur will say this much for masquerades: he’s never had so many dance partners before.

He’s also never felt so disappointed in their abundance.

Arthur tries to remember that he is supposed to be forging connections across the nobility. Deep down, his parents must know the prince is an impossibility, but he feels confident they would settle for a duke.

He dances his way through several partners’ explanations of their scattered townhomes, seaside holidays, riding exploits, and other anecdotes meant to reveal their status. Arthur keeps tales of wild nights with the estate’s account books to himself.

None of his partners can match his first for grace or style.

Arthur does his best to remember to make appropriate eye contact—forward as that seems, when the rest of their faces are hidden—but nevertheless finds himself staring beyond his partners, hoping for a glimpse of that midnight blue mask. His eyes rove restlessly over the other pairs, lingering only long enough to determine that this man’s step is too short, this one’s turn too abrupt.

After the better part of an hour, Arthur at last declines a dance. “You must excuse me,” he says, to a man wearing a mask of deep red that covers what must be an unusually high forehead but almost none of his nose or cheeks. “It’s growing warm in here, and I must find a drink.”

“Allow me to accompany you,” his would-be partner says, holding out his arm.

Arthur has no choice but to accept. Together, they make their way to the far end of the room, where a lavish banquet table has been laid with the finest of Proclusian finger foods and, to Arthur’s considerable relief, servants pouring goblets of chilled wine and juice.

Drinks in hand, Arthur and his red-masked partner step aside, so as to allow others access to the table. As Arthur raises his glass to his lips, he scans the throng of dancers before him, hoping to pick out—his grip slackens involuntarily, and he spills a few drops on the floor before he manages to secure his grasp.

“Are you all right?” his partner asks, because it’s just Arthur’s luck that, out of all his post-Charles partners, _this_ one is observant. “Do you need to sit down for a moment?”

“Oh, I’m all right,” says Arthur, distracted.

The courteous thing to do would be to look at his partner while speaking to him.

Arthur cares not one whit for the courteous thing.

Instead, his eyes track the smooth, elegant lines of Charles’s movements, the cut of his trousers, the powerful step that doesn’t overwhelm his partner but brings him right along with, that effortless turn—

Arthur almost drops his glass again.

Because when the dancing pair turns, he can see it’s not Charles at all. This man’s mask is dark gold, with white jewels near the eyes.

“It really is stifling in here,” his partner says, placing a hand low on Arthur’s back.

Arthur startles at the touch, and by the time his gaze returns to the dance floor a moment later, not-Charles and his partner have moved on.

“Yes,” Arthur says, after a beat too long to be polite.

_I must have been mistaken_ , he thinks. _Maybe the turn wasn’t quite like that._

Arthur has only ever felt Charles’s turn, after all, not observed it.

Maybe the gold-masked man and Charles shared a dance instructor: an easy mistake to make, from the outside.

Since movements alone have proven inconclusive, Arthur resolves to only watch for the mask. _That_ he’s sure there is only one of.

“Shall we move closer to the doors?” his partner asks, indicating the trio of double-doors leading out to the gardens.

Before Arthur can make up his mind—it really is quite hot, but he doesn’t want to miss the chance to find Charles—Ariadne swoops next to him, holding the arm of the gray-masked man with whom she originally danced.

“Excuse me,” Ariadne tells Arthur’s companion. “I know it’s not quite in the spirit of the affair, but I must speak with my brother here.”

“Certainly,” he says. He bows to the both of them, adding, “I hope we can have our dance yet.”

Arthur returns the bow in acknowledgement, then turns to Ariadne and her partner. He’s taller than she is, he notices now, with broad shoulders and brown hair that curls around the band of his mask. 

“Arthur, this is Yusuf,” Ariadne announces. “Yusuf, my brother, Arthur.”

Yusuf extends his hand, apparently not at all bothered by the informality of the introduction, and Arthur shakes it. 

“How do you do,” says Yusuf.

“How do you do,” Arthur repeats, bemused.

“Yusuf is a royal physician,” Ariadne says. 

Automatically, Arthur does the calculations: a respectable salary, living quarters within the palace, possibly a small title—a knighthood, nothing higher. Ariadne’s tastes aren’t extravagant, and she could live a comfortable, quiet life. It would be a step down socially, to be sure, but the predictable income would be a welcome relief, and a physician, even a royal one, would have no expectation of a large dowry.

It would also mean that securing the estate would be entirely up to Arthur.

“Ariadne has been charming me with stories of the hedge mazes you two planned as children,” Yusuf says.

“Which is to say, we’ll be taking a walk in the maze so thoughtfully provided by our monarchs,” Ariadne says.

_Ah_. This is not so much an introduction as a broadcast of her intended whereabouts, should Arthur go looking for her in the next... however long it takes Ariadne and Yusuf to sufficiently wander through the royal hedges. There was a pointed lack of request for a chaperone.

“Enjoy,” says Arthur, raising his glass to them. “Yusuf, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise,” says Yusuf, and before he can say more, Ariadne steers them away.

“A dance, when you’ve finished your drink?” The accent is peculiar: more standard than Proclusian, but a certain slip in the vowels makes it seem as though the original accent was Proclusian, and not the other way around.

Arthur looks away from the garden doors—and is rewarded by the sight of Charles’s blue mask, attached to the person now offering his hand to Arthur.

His heartbeat speeds up even as his stomach sinks, a strange, somersault sensation to accompany the confusion in his head: who would have Charles’s mask but not his voice?

_Only one way to find out_ , he thinks.

“I would be honored,” Arthur says. He takes one last drink and hands the mostly-empty glass to a passing servant.

It only takes two measures, however, for Arthur to ascertain that however similar their masks, his new partner is certainly no Charles. His movements are too stiff, like he’s a wooden wind-up doll as opposed to a flesh-and-blood man.

“Are you enjoying the evening?” Arthur asks.

“Here and there.”

His partner goes to turn them, but his touch is so light on Arthur’s back, Arthur struggles to stay in step.

“It’s a wonderful turnout,” Arthur tries again.

“Someone such as yourself is never in want of a partner, I’m sure.”

Arthur’s ear again catches on the strange accent. It’s such an upside-down of the usual combination, he feels he must listen to it for as long as possible, saying anything, just so he can have the chance to pick it apart and determine its component elements.

“That’s kind of you,” says Arthur. “A setting such as this can’t help but make everyone appear their best.”

“Oh? You don’t think the chandeliers outshine everyone below? With the exception of yourself, of course.”

Arthur ignores the flattery. “Not at all. That’s the genius of it, don’t you see? A room like this one—it _could_ have been made to intimidate, to make everyone who enters it seem lower and lesser than they’ve ever been, but it doesn’t do that at all. It doesn’t hoard its beauty, it shares it, it reflects it.”

“I’ve never thought about this room like that before. Tell me more.” His partner executes a half-turn much more gracefully than before.

_Maybe it always takes him some time to settle into a dance with a new partner_ , Arthur thinks.

“You know the Rose Steps, leading to the lower gardens?” Arthur asks.

“I’m familiar.”

Arthur has no such familiarity—not in person, that is. He’s caught a glimpse or two of them before, on his brief visits to the palace for structured engagements, but the main source of his knowledge comes from books in his family’s long-neglected library.

“They were created just a century ago,” he begins. “The architects were a father and son, Lionel and Roger Pen, who worked with two designers, the artists Escher and Reutersvärd. The marble was a gift from our Queen’s great-grandfather, in fact. From a distance, the steps look impossible, but as you become closer, as you walk them—they’ll take you there. Up, or down, I mean, terrace or gardens. They’re gorgeous, but they really work, too.”

“With such an eye as that, your home must be very beautiful.”

Arthur jolts to a stop, never mind the music, never mind the dancing pairs around them. “You _are_ Charles!”

“Arthur—”

“We haven’t introduced ourselves, this dance,” says Arthur. “And your accent just now—you forgot to change it.” His heart sinks as he realizes what this must mean. Nevertheless, he lifts his chin to say, “If you didn’t want to speak with me again, not really, you shouldn’t have asked me to dance. No one was making you lie.” He takes a step back.

“Forgive me, please, I can explain,” says Charles in a rush, grabbing Arthur’s hand to forestall his departure.

“Is that why you were asking me about true things before?” Arthur asks, letting anger mask his hurt and humiliation. “To see if you’d be able to trick me later?”

To think he’s spent all night searching for, _longing_ for, a liar.

“No, that’s not—please,” Charles repeats. “Finish the dance with me, then we’ll go outside and I’ll explain. I promise.”

Arthur swallows. “Only if you dance for real this time.”

Charles shifts his hands, drawing Arthur back into a proper dance hold. “I promise that, too. That was a lousy turn before, wasn’t it?”

“Very,” says Arthur.

“Let me make it up to you now,” says Charles, and spins them away across the ballroom.

They don’t talk for the rest of the song. Arthur doesn’t want to exchange any more pleasantries until Charles has explained. Instead, he allows himself to revel in the easy harmony of the dance, now that Charles has reverted to his true skill level. As long as they’re moving, it feels like the focal point of Arthur’s world has shifted: the center of gravity now belongs to Charles, and Arthur could no more step away than he could fly.

By the time the music shifts to a different tune, Charles has steered them toward the doors leading to the gardens.

“If you’d still like that explanation,” says Charles, his voice low.

“Very much,” says Arthur.

Charles leads them outside. The fresh autumn air is a relief after the crowded ballroom, and a pleasant breeze dances its way beneath Arthur’s mask to cool his cheeks. To the right is the entrance to the hedge maze. Arthur hopes Ariadne’s evening is proving to be less confusing than his own.

“There’s a fountain this way, where we might sit,” Charles says, nodding to the left.

They walk along the flowerbeds for a few minutes, Charles directing them to turn here or there with a tranquil confidence that Arthur admires. Eventually, they turn into a small courtyard boarded by tall rose trellises on three sides. In the center is a fountain, with a statue of a horse in the center. Water trickles from the horse’s hooves. Moonlight wavers on the rippled surface, like the moon can’t quite decide whether or not it’s really there.

They sit on a bench next to the fountain. Arthur is careful to maintain a polite distance between them.

“Thank you,” Charles says, “for agreeing to hear me out. I was a fool to relinquish you after our second dance—I should have stayed with you the whole night. Would you believe me if I tell you I have been trying to secure another dance with you ever since?” His tone is so sincere, Arthur has to look away, even though he can barely make out Charles’s eyes beneath the shadows cast by his dark mask. 

“And yet, when you found me... if you had truly wanted another dance, why pretend to be not yourself?” Arthur forces himself to ask.

“A promise I made to my father, to ensure I gave my heart to someone true,” says Charles. “I should have realized that to a person as honest as yourself, such a measure would seem a cruel trick.”

“Your father’s concerns for this night are... certainly not those of my own father,” says Arthur.

“No,” says Charles, his tone gentle. “I imagine not.”

“Where does this leave us, then?”

It sounds more dispassionate than the plea of Arthur’s heart: _please still want me. I still want you_.

“I must tell you who I am,” says Charles.

“Oh. If—if you wish,” says Arthur. He must reciprocate, of course. Gallant as Charles is, he will not be able to pursue a courtship once he knows of Arthur’s title and the paltry estate that accompanies it. Charles’s accent alone reveals enough of his status to be sure of that.

“I am the Duke of Passy.”

Arthur leaps to his feet. “Your Highness.”

_Father, Mother, I called the Prince a liar_ , he thinks wildly. What is to become of him now?

Prince Eames takes off his mask, and Arthur hurries to copy him. It wouldn’t do to remain masked while the prince was not. He tries not to let his eyes linger on the prince’s handsome brow and strong jaw, features he has seen in royal portraits but never before in person.

“Please, sit,” says the prince.

Arthur hesitates, then complies. It really wouldn’t do to ignore a direct command, even a polite one.

“A few of my more persistent partners tonight cornered me into giving a title,” the prince continues. “You’re the first person to realize. The rest of them pretended to be familiar with the title, but in truth couldn’t tell whether I was worth their time or not.”

“The whole kingdom’s gone mad for your mother’s heritage. I can’t believe no one else knew of the old name for the lands she brought into the marriage,” says Arthur, still dazed.

What he truly can’t believe is that he’s having this conversation with the _prince._ That the prince danced with him, three times, when he could have had anyone in the room. 

“The Duke of Bir-Hakeim does have more of a ring to it,” says Prince Eames. 

“Are you disappointed or impressed?”

“I have a feeling you didn’t learn the old name as part of your preparations to win my hand,” says Prince Eames.

“No,” says Arthur. “It was in a book on trade history.”

“Naturally.”

When Arthur dares to glance at the prince’s face again, he’s smiling.

“You wanted people to... to become acquainted with you, not your title,” Arthur guesses. “Hence the masquerade. And changing your dance style. And your accent. And your mask.”

“You caught the mask change?”

“Anyone who dances as beautifully as you do can’t hope to pass unnoticed,” says Arthur. He praised the prince’s dancing before he knew his title, so Arthur feels safe in the compliment.

“Rumors never spread faster than at a dance when a member of the royal family is known to be in attendance,” says Prince Eames. “I had to stay one step ahead, in case people found me out and passed the information along to their consort candidate.”

“I understand,” says Arthur.

“We could dance here,” says Prince Eames. “Without masks. You can’t hear the music from here, but I’ve been told I sing well.”

Arthur’s heart is pounding so loudly, it could serve as a metronome for them all on its own. His heart is singing _yes_ , but he knows his heart isn’t enough.

“I like you,” Arthur admits. “You’re—lovely. But you’re meant to be finding your future prince consort tonight, and I’m not a suitable candidate.”

“You think I don’t know who you are?” says Prince Eames. “You think my parents didn’t insist on combing through the entire invitee list with me? You think I didn’t sit with royal advisors as the acceptance notes arrived? I’ve memorized the name, title, preferred sport, summer holiday routine, and hair color of every male guest. As soon as you said you were Arthur—darling, I knew who you were.”

_Darling_.

Arthur’s ears are ringing with the earnestness of Prince Eames’s words.

Arthur has spent his whole life being told he is not worth knowing.

He never realized how marvelous it could feel to be told he is known.

“And you still wanted to find me,” he manages. His voice is a whisper.

“Of course I did. I meant what I said earlier: honesty can be more valuable than gold,” says Prince Eames.

“Because you already have gold,” says Arthur.

“Yes,” says the prince, simply. “My mother brought lands into her marriage, as part of her dowry. I will inherit those, along with the kingdom proper. I don’t need more land or gold. I need someone who can understand how important it is to manage well what I have. I need someone who will make _me_ more honest, even when it’s hard.”

“You need an administrator,” says Arthur in a flat tone.

“ _No_ ,” Prince Eames insists. “Or—that’s not why—that’s not what I’m trying to say.” Gently, he takes one of Arthur’s hands in his own. “You’re beautiful, and thoughtful, and I love the way you look at the world and _see_ beauty, and I love how careful you are to learn about everything required to make that beauty possible. And you’re not some simpering, society lord. You’ll tell me if I mess up, or if I’m asking too much.”

“From three dances?”

“See!” Prince Eames exclaims. “Exactly. And... from two dances, in fact. When you know, you know.”

Arthur looks down at their joined hands, then back up to the prince’s face, the hopeful curve of his mouth, the stars reflecting in his eyes.

And for once, he doesn’t think. Not about his parents, or the estate, or the account books, or the future societal reaction.

“You’re right. When you know, you know.”

“May I kiss you?”

Arthur nods, and then suddenly that hopeful curve is on _his_ lips.

When the prince breaks the kiss, he leaves one hand on Arthur’s face, thumb brushing his cheek.

“Your Highness—” Arthur starts.

“Eames. If we’re to court, you must use my name.” Eames punctuates this with a chaste kiss to Arthur’s cheek.

“Eames,” Arthur repeats.

“Yes, darling?”

Arthur’s thoughts are too preoccupied with the way their thighs are now pressed together on the stone bench, with the movement of Eames’s hand from his cheek to his neck.

“I... can’t remember,” he manages to say. “I don’t think it was important.”

“All of your thoughts are important,” says Eames. “Except when they involve using my title.”

Once again, Arthur can only nod.

“We’ll court for six months, as is proper. We’ll marry...”

“In the spring, in the reception hall, under the chandeliers,” says Arthur. Somehow, he feels sure that Eames will approve of his confidence.

“Dream a little bigger, darling,” says Eames.

In his mind’s eye, Arthur flies over the entire palace and grounds—the throne room, the rose gardens, the large green space in the center of the maze...

“You know...” Arthur begins. “I think I will.”

The Rose Steps it is.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Our pont de Bir-Hakeim has only had that name since 1948; previously, its name was pont de Passy. Wikipedia coming through for grand reveals.


End file.
